


Le Grand Bleu

by Donna_Immaculata



Series: Nightshapes [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Drinking & Talking, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Idealized Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aramis is backed up against the wall, standing quite still but for his hands, which play nervously with his beer bottle. Athos looks at him, trying to see him with an outsider’s eyes. He’s never been attracted to Aramis; he’s never been into men. Come to think of it, he’s hardly ever been into any woman. He tries to remember the last time he kissed someone and meant it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Grand Bleu

**Author's Note:**

> After all that period-appropriate 17th century porn, it’s time for period-appropriate 2010s porn. This is set among indie filmmakers in modern-day Berlin, but neither filmmaking nor Berlin will be particularly relevant. I just wanted to use a setting where I can explore the characters’ various hang-ups in a different context and with a modern vocabulary at my disposal. In the modern day, Athos and Aramis would know all there is to know about sex – and more than they ever wished to know, thanks to the wonders of the Internet – and they would in theory have the necessary awareness and vocabulary to put their emotions into words. But they would be just as messed-up as their 17th century counterparts, albeit for different reasons. And because messed-up Athos/Aramis is my favourite fic flavour, I put them into a setting where they can be romantic & cynical, sexually experienced & repressed, emotionally articulate & inhibited at the same time. And where they can explore relationship models and kinks of all shapes and sizes until they hit on one that works for them specifically.

[non-linear]

In hindsight, it was all because of the thunderstorm. Athos has never had much patience for people who blamed their erratic behaviour on the weather – or, for that matter, their personality on the movement of celestial bodies – but he was prepared to make an exception in this instance. He ignored the voice in the back of his head that insisted he was only trying to shift the blame and refusing to take responsibility for what happened.

He carried enough responsibility already, he really didn’t need to add this one to the list.

It was also Aramis’ fault, but he didn’t want to think of it in these terms. Blaming Aramis to absolve himself would accomplish nothing, except making him feel like a coward. Blaming the thunderstorm was the far better option.

The world spins around him in the slow, familiar dance that accompanies that level of drunkenness, a gentle warm buzz in his head and his veins. The rocking of the s-bahn carriage is a pleasant counterpoint to the sway of his body. The train is packed on this Friday night, the smell of rain clings to hair and clothes, mingling with beer and sweat and sunscreen-soaked skin and too much perfume, and that underground smell of burnt rubber and mouldy fabric. The downpour of rain has caught everyone by surprise, even though they should’ve expected the storm, after endless hours of sticky humidity. The men have taken off their shirts and the women’s flimsy summer dresses are drenched and stick to their bodies. The drunken, happy exuberance of a Friday night teems like an ocean around Athos, as he leans with one shoulder against the door, watching them breathe and laugh and kiss and drink. 

The s-bahn rocks screechily to a halt, and Athos gets off the train and pushes his way through the throng, down the steps and into the late-night bustle of Friedrichstraße station. It’s raining still outside, and people are running past him, splashing through puddles and swimming through the torrent of rain.

Athos doesn’t run. He floats gently on the waves and lets the current carry him forward, swaying only slightly as he makes his way home. It’s not late yet, and he could’ve stayed longer, but there was no point, was there? Aramis disappeared somewhere ages ago, for another party perhaps, and he’d left Athos with things unsaid, looks unfinished. Touches that were aborted even before they began. Athos wasn’t sure if Aramis did or did not imply that anything happened, and perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps it was all in his head, and the look, the look, and the touch, and why did he keep fucking dreaming about it?

Blue turns to black, and he’s no longer floating but diving into the depths of the deep sea. The streets around him are narrowing down. They are dark and quiet as he walks home, and his mind is spinning to the same rhythm as the drunken world around him. Was it because he hadn’t seen Aramis in weeks? He had almost begun to assume that Aramis was keeping away on purpose, that he, Athos, had done or said something to offend him, and the longer he didn’t hear from Aramis, the more difficult it became to pick up the phone and give him a ring.

It was Aramis who called eventually. “Did you miss me?” he said, smiling into the phone. “I spent three miserable weeks on a shoot in Lausitz.”

“Right,” Athos said.

“A television thing,” Aramis continued, “I didn’t ask if you fancied doing it, because I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“I see. Money shot, was it?” Athos felt both stupid and relieved, and also a tiny bit angry that Aramis appeared to see through him. Unlike Aramis and Porthos, he could afford to pick and choose, and he never picked telly work.

“Yeah. Listen, are you coming to Queenie’s vernissage later? Constance is coming, and she’s bringing that boy of hers. Could be fun.”

“Is that tonight?”

“Yes. What’s the matter with you, is anything wrong?”

“Why should anything be wrong?”

“You don’t sound like yourself. Come on, say you’re coming, there’s going to be a performance and everything.”

And here they are now. Aramis looks tan and happy, and Athos feels like a grey-faced blob of gloom. He’s not in the mood to socialise. He rather liked the installation, however. The backroom of Anne’s gallery was painted in a glaring white that hurt the eyes. The visitors were made to put on CSI-style coveralls and goggles before entering, and industrial-strength earmuffs. Athos sank into that world of pure whiteness, and there was nothing there to distract him from the experience as he walked through the room, unhearing, gliding past the other visitors like a ghost among others. The starkness, the blinding glare permeated everything, and when a red smudge of light and paint suddenly splashed across the white wall, it was like a tear in the fabric of reality.

“That was quite good, wasn’t it?” Aramis says when they are seated in a low leather sofa with their beers in front of them. 

His eyes are on Anne as he talks, and Athos thinks he discerns something in Aramis’ gaze that he doesn’t quite like. Aramis looks at people like he means it, he does it all the time, but with Anne, it almost looks… real.

“It was. Queenie does have an eye for striking visuals,” Athos says.

“I’m not sure that’s what it was, striking visuals,” Aramis says. “It was a sensory experience, rather than a visual one. Don’t you think?”

Athos does think so. In fact, he still feels a bit dazed, as if his eyes had not yet adapted to the dim smokiness of the bar after the white glare of the exhibition. He’s very aware of the hairs on his arms, the back of his neck. It’s not quite goosebumps, but it’s not far off.

“Seeing _is_ a sensory experience,” he says. “It’s always touch with you.” He rolls his eyes theatrically and sips on his beer. “It was your sense of vision, the fact that you did nothing but see that made you feel like this. There was no other input, that’s what it was all about.”

“Made me feel like what?”

Athos freezes with the bottle at his mouth. “What?”

“What?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean? Made me feel like what?”

Athos is not sure what just happened. He feels like Aramis has cornered him and he’s backed against the wall and he doesn’t even know how and why. It is a reasonable question, why the fuck did he presume to know how Aramis feels? Just because his own skin is tingling, doesn’t mean it’s the same for everyone.

“Dazed,” he says, keeping his voice steady and just a tiny little bit supercilious. “You didn’t say a word for at least fifteen minutes after you came out of that room, it’s as if someone had bludgeoned you over the head. Was it the performance or was it because it’s Anne’s show?” Aramis’ crush on Anne is common knowledge, Athos suspects that even Louis knows about it. But Anne is aloof and ethereal. It makes her impervious to any seduction attempts, even Aramis’, no matter how good he is. He wonders briefly what Aramis’ secret is, it can’t all be his looks.

Aramis drinks deeply from his bottle and turns to Athos. “Can I kiss you?”

Athos stops breathing. “What?” He looks at Aramis and encounters a dark, serious gaze. Aramis appears to mean it. “Are you always that formal?”

“I like to be polite.”

“Why would you even ask that?”

“Because I don’t think you’d appreciate me simply kissing you without a warning.”

“And you would do that because…?” The conversation is rapidly deteriorating into the realms of absurdity.

“Because I’d like to know what it’s like.”

“That’s-” preposterous, absurd, stupid, “fair enough.” Athos’s gaze drops briefly to Aramis’ mouth, almost despite himself, and he drags it back to his eyes. “Not here.”

“No,” Aramis agrees. “Come on, let’s go and find a dark corner.”

“You’re insane,” Athos says five minutes later, after Aramis has manoeuvred them into a niche between the door marked ‘private’ and a tall metal structure that could be a piece of art or a piece of rubbish.

“Why? Because I’d like to kiss you?”

“Because you’re approaching this so…” he casts for the right word, watching Aramis who’s leaning with his back against the wall. The lamp above his head casts a metallic shimmer on his hair, and his eyes are dark puddles. “Clinically.”

“I’m not,” Aramis says, pressing his hand to his heart. “Honestly, this is anything but clinical. I just really want to kiss you.”

“And you thought the best way would be to ask me and lure me into a dark corner?”

“No, actually. Had I thought about it, I would not have done it. I’m surprised you said yes.”

So is Athos. But he’s here now, and he can’t back out of this without looking ridiculous in his own eyes, and there is a challenge in this which appeals to him on a very primal level. Aramis is backed up against the wall, standing quite still but for his hands, which play nervously with his beer bottle. Athos looks at him, trying to see him with an outsider’s eyes. He’s never been attracted to Aramis; he’s never been into men. Come to think of it, he’s hardly ever been into any woman. He tries to remember the last time he kissed someone and meant it.

And yet here he is, and he knows that it’s going to happen, there’s no point dragging it out. Athos leans in and kisses Aramis on the mouth.

And that was it. That was it, a kiss. Not a prolonged heated snog, just a deep, exploring kiss that Aramis let Athos lead. Athos was clear-headed enough to admit to himself that the reason he had said yes was because he’d been curious. He was curious how someone like Aramis would kiss; someone who’d had sex with more people than Athos has ever even talked to. What it would feel like to kiss a man. Aramis wears that beard that should be silly but that suits him somehow, and Athos wondered if it’d scratch and put him off. 

Here he is now, two weeks later, trying to get the key into the lock to his flat, and the memories are swirling round his head like socks in a tumble dryer. He doesn’t quite understand how and when it happened. Not straightaway, that much is clear. When they parted after the kiss, neither of them panting, Athos wasn’t even particularly aroused. It was nice, a comfortable warm feeling, like coming home from a location shoot and sinking into a warm bath. He wasn’t hard, and he didn’t think that Aramis was. Aramis’ hand rested lightly on Athos’ hip, and he took a swig from his beer bottle and held it out to Athos.

“Thank you,” Aramis said, a smile curling in the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t mention it.” Athos said and took the beer.

Aramis raised his eyebrows. “We should go back.”

It wasn’t until several days later that the dreams started. He woke one night, just when the small hours were morphing into big hours, with a curse on his lips and a raging hard-on. His alarm clock was due to go off in fifty minutes, and he needed the sleep, but he pushed his hand into his boxers instead and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to conjure up those elusive images and sensations again. Aramis was kissing him, deeply, with lips and tongue and with a hand tangled in Athos’ hair, and Athos sank into the all-encompassing warmth and pressure of his body. He came into his own hand with a strangled groan. “Oh fuck,” he whispered, one arm thrown over his face, covering his eyes. His other hand was buried in the sticky mess inside his pants. “Fuck. What the fuck.” The sensation had been so vivid, he was almost surprised that Aramis wasn’t there with him, nuzzling his neck and gathering him up in his arms.

Here he is tonight, not quite drunk enough and sad and irritated, and he should not have gone to that bloody party. Athos pulls off his drenched t-shirt and throws it into the bathroom in passing, cursing as he trips over a discarded bag on his way to the kitchen. He doesn’t turn on the light, he just takes a bottle of beer from the fridge and staggers into the living room. That boy was there again tonight, d’Artagnan, and Athos tries to remember if he promised him anything. D’Artagnan’s only just arrived in Berlin, with a brand new media-science degree from some provincial university in his pocket, and brimming over with hope and enthusiasm. Confronted with all that youthful optimism, Athos wavers between feeling wistful and cynical. Aramis and Porthos have worked with d’Artagnan before, once or twice, and they say he’s bright and quick on the uptake.

“If nothing else, he’ll make a good runner,” Porthos said, grinning. “It’s worth keeping him around.”

“He doesn’t want to be a runner, he won’t put up with it,” Aramis said, bumping his shoulder into Porthos playfully. Aramis never seems to be able to not touch Porthos. Athos sometimes wonders idly what they are like when there is nobody around, hanging out in that flat that they share, and he amuses himself picturing them both watching telly sprawled on the sofa and on each other untidily like a couple of large dogs, or Porthos trying to do the dishes with Aramis draped over his shoulders. 

His thoughts have come back to Aramis again. Athos groans, flops onto the sofa and puts on the telly. He leans into a cushion, presses his cheek into the soft fabric and imagines it to be Aramis’ shoulder. He’s that far gone, and it’s embarrassing. “How the fuck did that happen?” he whispers, with his eyes fixed at the flickering images on screen.

His mobile beeps, and he startles, pulls it out, reads the text message and his insides explode with lust. He’s fully hard even before the display goes dark again.

_If I rang your doorbell in an hour’s time because I can’t sleep – would you let me in?_

~*~

[experimental]

“Why can’t you sleep?” Athos knows that his voice and face are calm when he opens the door. He used the hour to take a shower and put on dry clothes, but he didn’t bother shaving. He doesn’t want Aramis to think he’s made an effort. Aramis is fidgety and looks dishevelled. His hair is dripping with rain, and he’s pulling off his soaked leather coat. For one horrible second, Athos’ heart stops, because he’s convinced that Aramis is returning from somebody else’s bed, but he breathes in deeply and steadies himself. He knows that that’s not true. He knows that Aramis would not be tasteless enough to do that to him.

“Too hot. I live on the top floor,” Aramis says and follows Athos inside. “I’ll just put the beers in the fridge.”

Athos sinks into a corner of the sofa with his arms crossed, hoping that the cushions will absorb the wild throb of his heart, the thrum of his entire body, when Aramis comes in with a bottle in his hand. Aramis toes off his trainers, kicks them into the hall and folds up next to Athos, not quite touching him. “What are we watching?”

“Reportage on pig husbandry,” Athos says blankly. He’s hyperaware of every single hair on his own body; of the damp warmth radiating from Aramis; of every tiny movement of Aramis’ body, every intake of breath, he can see, from the corner of his eye, Aramis’ chest move up and down and he tries to assess if it’s moving faster than usual, if Aramis is as turned-on as he is. 

“What about Porthos?” Athos asks, staring intently at the television screen. “Is he not too hot?”

“I think he’s staying at Flea’s tonight,” Aramis says. He shifts, fumbles in his pockets, bumping knees and elbows into Athos in the process, and pulls out a small plastic bag. “Fancy a smoke?”

“Yeah.”

Athos watches him skin up. Aramis is leaning over the table and Athos can only see a sliver of his face, the curve of temple and brow, the line of his cheek. His mouth. He is aware, even without seeing his face fully, of the expression of concentration, the line between his eyebrows, the slightly parted lips. Aramis is wearing a very loose white shirt with billowing sleeves that makes him look a bit like a pirate. It’s unbuttoned almost all the way down to his nipples, because Aramis uses fashion to highlight the fact that there is actually a very naked body underneath the clothes. Still damp, his collar has ridden down so that Athos can see the back of his neck, the top of his spine, the muscles that swipe from the column of his neck to his shoulders. The chain around his neck. He doesn’t even care anymore, he’s staring at Aramis’ naked skin and thinks about licking it. Aramis licks the gum of the rizla, rolls the spliff delicately with the fingers of both hands, and lights the tip. He pulls off the burning piece of paper, carries the joint to his mouth and takes a deep drag, falling back into the cushions.

He ends up with his head resting against Athos’ arm. Athos is sure Aramis must feel the beat of his pulse through the layers of skin and fabric and his own hair, but Aramis doesn’t appear to be discomforted or fazed. He smokes, passes the spliff to Athos without taking his eyes off the telly or his head off Athos’ arm, and says, “Is that guy wanking off that pig?”

“Yeah,” Athos takes a drag, holds it in his lungs and exhales. “That’s how baby piglets are made. When daddy pig and the big man in the butcher’s apron love each other very much-”

Aramis starts to laugh and chucks the remote control at Athos. “Here, find us some SpongeBob and SquarePants,” he says. “I hear that’s what one’s supposed to watch these days.”

“I miss Teletubbies,” Athos says. “They were the best.”

Aramis laughs again and his head sinks deeper into the crook of Athos’ elbow. It’s heavy, and Athos shifts his arm so that it slots under the arch of Aramis’ neck. Aramis takes this as invitation to roll his head, to roll his entire body, until his cheek comes to rest against Athos’ ribs. It is lucky that this is his right-hand side, because if Aramis were pressed up against him on the left, the sound of Athos’ heart under his ear would deafen him. Even like this Athos is sure that Aramis must hear it, the relentless drumroll against his ribcage. That he feels the way Athos’ chest moves with every gasp for breath. 

They smoke in silence, passing the spliff to and fro and staring blankly at the television. Aramis’ hair is still wet, and the water seeps through the fabric of Athos’ t-shirt; mingles with his sweat. Aramis has gone very still, and were it not for his hand, for his fingers toying with the fringe of his shirt, Athos might think he has fallen asleep.

Athos takes a last drag and stubs out the butt in the ashtray that sits on the sofa between them. Aramis picks it up and puts it back on the table and they both settle back in the cushions and in each other’s space. Athos arm has curled lightly around Aramis’ shoulder and he permits himself to rest his fingertips on the soft fabric of his sleeve. The smoke has mellowed him, and his heart is no longer trying to escape his chest.

“What now,” Athos says quietly, so quietly he’s not even sure Aramis can hear it over the beat of their both blood.

Aramis’ shoulder twitches against his ribs. “Whatever you want.”

“You came to me.”

“Yeah,” Aramis says and moves again, rolling his entire body until it fills out the space that has been still left between him and Athos. “Yeah, I did.”

Athos tilts his head back, stares up at the ceiling and curses inwardly. They both know why Aramis is here. They both want to, and Athos wants to so much it makes it almost impossible to breathe, but he can’t. He can’t do it, he can’t simply take what he wants. He’s utterly at Aramis’ mercy, it’s up to Aramis to make the first move, and if he doesn’t do so within the next five minutes, they will both die.

Aramis’ hand moves, fingertips brushing against the inside of Athos’ wrist. Their touch is feather-light, and Athos’ entire body erupts in shivers. He keeps his eyes fixed at the ceiling. The telly is the only source of light in the room, and blue shadows dance above his head. It is like looking at the sky from underwater, and Athos’ body begins to float again, with the teasing caresses of Aramis’ fingers brushing against his skin like tiny currents. Athos swallows around a dry throat, lowers his head, cups Aramis’ face and kisses him on the mouth.

Just like last time, Aramis lets him lead the kiss. His lips are a soft pressure, barely parted, until Athos leans in closer and deepens the kiss. Aramis pushes back with a sigh, and then his hands are on Athos, in his hair, on his face, his neck, trailing down his chest, and Athos clenches his fingers in Aramis’ hair to keep him in place.

“Yes? No?” Aramis breathes against Athos’ lips. 

“Yes.” He pulls Aramis back in and kisses him again. This is nothing like sinking into a warm bath. This is heady, dizzying, desperate, and he sinks his teeth into Aramis’ lower lip to make him groan.

“Like that, is it?” Aramis pulls back and his eyes smile at Athos as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Any objections?”

“No.” Aramis leans back in and swipes his tongue across Athos’ lips. “Do it again.”

Athos tightens the grip of his fingers in Aramis’ hair and tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, and Aramis’ body arches into him, a hard, solid pressure that threatens to push him off balance. Athos yanks Aramis’ head back by his hair and flips them both over, until he ends up stretched out on top of Aramis, slipping into the cradle between his parted legs. 

“Fuck.” Athos bites his own lip and jerks his head back. He wasn’t prepared for Aramis’ body to be so hot and hard, so completely different from the body of a woman. 

Aramis blinks up at Athos from veiled eyes. “You’re okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” He shifts and watches Aramis’ eyes widen. He’s not quite sure yet how he feels about Aramis’ cock pressing into his stomach.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” Aramis says, “we don’t have to. I honestly only wanted to kiss you. Or not, whatever you like.”

“No, no, let’s do this,” Athos says. His body is getting used to the sensation, and it begins to feel really good. It’s not quite like in his dream, it doesn’t feel safe or comforting, but it’s definitely good. He puffs against the fringe of hair that obscures his eyes, ducks his head and kisses Aramis again, more slowly, exploring the taste and texture of his lips and mouth and getting used to the feel of kissing a man, to the rasp of his beard. Aramis’ hand rests on the back of his neck, the other is stroking up and down his back, making his spine tingle.

“Do you want to,” Athos mutters against Aramis’ mouth, “do you want to go to bed?”

Aramis laughs shakily. “Yes.” He pulls Athos down and kisses him with open-mouthed urgency. As Athos clambers to his knees, the look on Aramis’ face takes his breath away. Aramis is staring at him with an expression of nigh reverence, his dark eyes are travelling up and down his body and linger on his crotch. Athos shifts, suddenly aware of how hard he is, and Aramis’ hand comes up to touch him, but hesitates in mid-air.

“May I?” he asks quietly, but Athos feels in the tension of his voice, the tension of his body, and he knows what it costs him to keep his voice level. 

Athos takes a deep breath and wraps his fingers around Aramis’ wrist. “Yeah.” He guides Aramis’ hand to his crotch and watches his fingertips brush over the outline of his erection. His stomach tightens and then flutters, and he squeezes his eyes shut and grinds Aramis’ open palm against his cock. 

“Oh.” Aramis’ sigh floats up to him like a physical caress. Athos opens his eyes again and pulls Aramis’ hand away.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says abruptly, stands up and walks off on unsteady legs. It’s ridiculous, he feels like an innocent about to have sex for the first time, and it annoys him. He’ll just have to pull himself together and power through. It’ll be easier probably, more natural, once they’re in bed.

Aramis catches up with him on the threshold to the bedroom. “Wait,” he says and seizes Athos’ hand, “you’re clearly not okay with this, and I don’t want to do anything that you’ll regret.”

“No, it’s fine.” Athos presses Aramis’ hand and pulls him towards the bed without looking at him. “I-” want to. Have been dreaming about it. I came so hard the other night fantasising about you I literally blackened out. “I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Aramis follows him into the room and flops onto the mattress. He picks up the book from the pillow and chucks it to the floor, and then stretches out on his back, folding both arms beneath his head. “Go on then.”

Athos blinks. “What?”

“You can do to me whatever you want. I…” his gaze shifts away from Athos and he exhales shakily, “I want to, you know. Whatever you want, I’m game. But I don’t know what you want, and I don’t want to do anything wrong and that’s why you’ll have to show me. If you’re not telling me.”

Quite despite himself, a smile tugs at the corner of Athos’ mouth. “That was almost incoherent.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Aramis takes a deep breath. “I’m a bit nervous you know.”

Now, that is unexpected, and it buoys Athos’ spirits. He smirks openly. “You, nervous? About sex?” He kneels on the bed beside Aramis and flattens the palm of his hand against his thigh. “You’re full of surprises.”

“You’ve no idea.” Aramis reaches out and pulls him down. “Not about sex, about you. I never thought I’ll ever end up in bed with you,” he mutters into his hair. His pulse is throbbing beneath Athos’ lips and Athos presses his mouth deliberately to Aramis’ neck. Aramis sighs and rolls his head to allow him better access. “Whatever you want,” he whispers, and Athos can feel his throat vibrate under his mouth.

The pleasant buzz in his head and blood is back and the sensation of warmth, of safety returns that has haunted him in his dreams. Aramis has gone quite loose-limbed and pliant underneath him, surrendering himself to his touch. Athos drags his hand down Aramis’ ribs to his hip and back up again and presses his hand to his chest to feel Aramis’ heartbeat in his palm. It’s fast and firm, matching Athos’ own. 

It is so different from anything he’s expected. Not just the texture of Aramis’ skin, soft in contrast to the scruffy rasp of his beard; not just the hard contours of his body; what amazes Athos most is how quiet he is. He has expected a firework of words and actions, but Aramis is keeping perfectly still under Athos’ roving hands. He kisses Athos back – deep, dizzying kisses that make Athos’ head spin, yet he doesn’t initiate them, and his arms are still folded beneath his head.

“You’re all right?” Athos mutters eventually, brushing away a strand of Aramis’ hair with his mouth. 

“Mmh…” Aramis presses his lips to Athos’ temple.

“You realise you’re letting me do all the work? You’re not doing anything.”

“I’m learning.” Aramis says, and a hint of laughter vibrates in his voice.

“Learning what?”

“What you like.”

Athos shakes his head and slides his hand from Aramis’ chest to his armpit and then up the length of his arm. “What are you, some kind of sex bot that has to reprogram itself?” He takes Aramis’ hand and tugs it free from under his head. “You’re allowed to touch me, you know.”

At that, Aramis moans and clenches his hand around Athos’, and he’s kissing Athos in earnest now, kissing deep into his mouth, into his heart and soul, and the intensity of it is like an actual physical weight that presses into him from all sides, pushing him into Aramis. Aramis threads his fingers through Athos’ and moves his other arm down his back, to the waistband of his jeans, and slips his hand under the hem of his t-shirt. Athos’ hips jerk forward at the touch of Aramis’ fingertips on his bare skin. “Take it off,” Aramis breathes into his mouth. 

Once they’re down to their boxer briefs, Aramis rolls them over and pins Athos down with the full weight of his body. Athos gasps at the contact, shockingly stark and raw. Aramis is heavier than he looks, all straining muscles and damp skin, and stronger than Athos expected. He shoves his arm under the small of Athos’ back and lifts him up around his middle to grind their hips together. “Good?” he gasps against Athos’ skin.

It is. It is good, the pressure of Aramis’ cock against his, the sheer hardness of it. He’s panting into Aramis’ shoulder and pushes his hips up. Aramis lets go of his back and plunges his hand into his briefs instead. Athos bites into his shoulder, digging in his teeth into the hard muscle, and Aramis hisses and closes his fist around his cock. His hand, too, is so much larger than Athos expected, larger and firmer, and he knows what he’s doing, sliding his fist up and down Athos’ cock with just the right amount of pressure. He pulls his hand out after a few strokes, licks his palm and pushes back in, picking up the rhythm effortlessly. The heat and pressure are exquisite; it’s hard and fast and confident, and Athos’ mind reels. It reels and reels, and reels away from him, from this, from the sensation that has built up in his stomach and his balls, and then it arrives at Anne’s face and stops. Memories resurface, of the expression she wore when she was wanking him off, all those years ago, when he was happy. Anne was good with her hands, but she never got it quite right, unlike Aramis, who _is_ getting it right. And yet, the spell is broken. An unbidden sense of self-awareness slams him back into his body and he curls up like a worm on a hook. Aramis’ hand is too much all of a sudden. It’s too hard and too dry, and his mind overcharges with the wrong kind of images. He puts his hand on Aramis’ wrist, squirming away and awash with shame.

Aramis stops instantly. “No?”

Athos waits for his heartbeat to even out, and Aramis waits too, patiently. “I never come unless I do it myself,” Athos says into the darkness.

“Okay. Sorry.” Aramis pulls back, and Athos expects him to roll away, but he doesn’t. He curls up by Athos’ side, presses a kiss against his jaw and puts his hand on Athos’ stomach.

I’m sorry, Athos thinks, sorry I spoiled the mood, sorry I led you on, sorry I-

“It’s all right,” Aramis says calmly. “We all have our things.”

Athos turns his head away. “You don’t. Not in this.”

He feels a puff of laughter against his skin. “You’ve no idea,” Aramis says, almost cheerfully.

This is intriguing. “Do tell.” Athos turns back to face him. They never bothered to turn on the lamp, and the room is illuminated only by the light that pours in through the blinds from the street. The darkness is a comforting blanket, hiding him from Aramis’ scrutiny, but it also hides Aramis’ face from him, and right now, he would very much like to read it. Aramis’ sexual confidence is a _fact_. It sleets off him like vapour, and he flaunts it like a gaudy fashion accessory.

“No,” Aramis shakes his head with a smile. “You’ll see soon enough. I don’t want to put you off right off the bat.”

This, too, is intriguing. It’s a promise of more to come, and Athos isn’t sure how he feels about that, either. “Are you implying we’re going to do this again?”

Aramis laces his fingers with Athos’. “I’d like to. If you want to, then, yeah.” He brushes his closed lips over Athos’ shoulder. “You don’t have to decide right now. Just, let me know when you do.”

He’s being handled gently, Athos is aware of it. It’s a bit annoying, but at the same time, it’s touching and flattering, too. Aramis, who could have anyone, is actually making an effort to have him. “I’ll think about it,” he says, haughtily.

Aramis smiles again, he can feel it through his skin. “Please do.” He settles against Athos’ side, pressing against him from shoulder to hip, and throws a leg over Athos’. 

Athos realises with a jolt that Aramis is no longer as hard as he was only minutes ago. He hasn’t come. Athos has actually managed to rob him of his orgasm. “Do you want to-” he breaks off. Want what? Is he about to offer Aramis to wank him off?

“I’m fine,” Aramis says. “Really, I am. We’re too drunk to do it properly anyway.”

“We would never have got that far completely sober,” Athos says. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

“I know,” Aramis says happily. “I knew when to pick my moments.”

“You’re a shameless fuck.”

“Yes.” Aramis raises himself on his elbow and kisses Athos on the mouth. “Yes, I am that.”

~*~

Aramis is kissing him, deeply, with lips and tongue and with a hand tangled in Athos’ hair, and Athos sinks into the all-encompassing warmth and pressure of his body. It’s almost an out-of-body experience, like floating on warm, oily water. The throb of his blood, insistent and powerful, as it pools between his legs, and the smell of his own arousal, and Aramis’ hair tickling his face, and Athos groans in frustration when he floats up and breaks through the surface of the dream. “Oh fuck,” he whispers and keeps his eyes tightly shut to cling to the elusive images and sensations.

They do not vanish. There is warmth still, and smells, and Aramis’ hair that’s spilled over Athos’ face and into his mouth. Aramis is sleeping with his head on his chest, and Athos is turned on beyond endurance. He shoves his hand into his boxers and wanks himself off, fast and hard, and he comes within the space of a few breaths, over his own hand and stomach and over Aramis too, who is tightly wrapped around him. Even as he’s still gasping into Aramis’ hair, he feels a light touch against the back of his hand. Aramis’ breath is hot at his throat.

“Fuck me,” Aramis whispers in awe. “That was the most erotic thing I’ve seen in years.” His hand wrapped around Athos’, he drags them both through the sticky mess on Athos’ stomach. Even as Athos is still shaking, coming down from the sudden orgasm-induced high, Aramis nuzzles his neck and gathers him up in his arms. “It’s all right,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

~*~

[kitchen sink]

Athos looks his own reflection sternly in the eye as he fills the bathroom sink with cold water. His face is a pale grey and he feels like something the cat has dragged in and chewed on and spat out. He’s sore and a bit shaky, his mouth hurts from kissing and the skin around his lips is raw from Aramis’ beard.

Athos takes a deep breath and plunges his face into the icy water.

He re-emerges not quite a new man. But it’s workable material, like raw footage with the potential of becoming a watchable film after editing. Aramis, impatient though he is in many respects, is actually a good editor. He can spend hours fiddling until he gets the timing just right. Rolling his eyes at himself, Athos takes out a new razor from the box, fumbles a new toothbrush out of the packaging and puts them both on top of the washing machine, for Aramis to find later. He takes a pair of jeans from the washing line and shuffles over to the living room pulling them on en route. He opens his laptop and settles down to check his emails. His stomach is queasy, and he’s not sure if that’s because he’s hung over or because of the morning-after confrontation with Aramis that’s looming ahead. By the time he hears Aramis come out of the bathroom, he has worked himself into a state of icy calm and has managed to answer three important emails that he’s been putting off for at least a week.

Aramis doesn’t come into the living room. Athos almost expects to hear the front door slam – it would certainly be the most elegant solution – but then he hears Aramis rummage around in the kitchen, and then there’s the smell of fresh coffee, and his heart leaps. On his way to the kitchen, he grabs a clean t-shirt from the washing line in the bathroom. The razor and toothbrush he laid out for Aramis have been used; they are both lying on top of the washing machine, and Athos picks them up and puts the toothbrush into the mug, next to his own. The razor goes into the cabinet, and Athos shakes his head at himself in the mirror.

Aramis, wearing only his boxer briefs and the chain around his neck like some sort of domestic slave, is wiping the worktop where Athos spilled coffee yesterday and couldn’t be bothered to clean it up before leaving for the party. The cafetière is on the table, as are plates and mugs.

Aramis glances over his shoulder at Athos and flashes him a quick smile. “I found toast and eggs, I’m making scrambled eggs. There’s only about a spoonful of milk left in the carton, that’s for me. You can drink your coffee black.”

Without a word, Athos fetches the milk from the fridge and pours it into Aramis’ mug. It’s not the first time Aramis stayed at his place, and it’s not the first time he’s made him breakfast. But this time, there’s a significance behind it. 

He leans against the fridge with one shoulder, crosses his arms and watches Aramis cook for him. Aramis looks older in the light of day. He’s got that youthfully-shaped face that makes him appear young in dim light, but in broad daylight Athos can see the lines in the corners of his eyes, the lines in the corners of his mouth. There are grey hairs in his beard, and his eyes look sombre. His hair is a tousled mess, looking like it’s never seen a comb, and Athos’ fingers twitch to smooth it down.

He steps behind Aramis and touches him lightly on the shoulderblade, just beneath the scar there. Aramis goes very still. This is how he reacts to touch, Athos realises, it makes him go still, like a horse with a twitch clamped to its lip. He slides his hand up Aramis’ shoulder, brushes his mouth against the nape of Aramis’ neck, and Aramis’ head falls forward. Athos moves his hand down, around his waist and snakes it into Aramis’ briefs. He’s not surprised to find him hard. He curls his hand around his cock – the angle is right when he’s standing behind Aramis like this – and weighs it in his palm. Aramis’ cock is curved slightly to the right, and as Athos strokes all the way down and then back up again, he hears Aramis sigh.

When Athos kisses him again, this time on the shoulder, Aramis grabs the edge of the worktop. “Harder,” he says. After last night, Athos is prepared for how quiet Aramis gets during sex, quite still but for his harsh breathing, until he comes with a moan, biting down on a Spanish profanity. Only now does Athos realise that he doesn’t know what the proper etiquette is in this situation, if it’d be impolite to wipe his hand off on Aramis’ boxers or stomach. He leaves his fingers curled loosely around Aramis’ cock and reaches for a paper towel. 

Aramis laughs. “Ever the practical.” He opens the tap, and Athos leans across to rinse his hand and then wipes it dry on the towel. Aramis turns around in the circle of his arms and kisses him. “I like how you kiss,” he says calmly. “It’s pleasantly non-invasive.”

“That’s a very odd choice of words.”

“Not at all. You don’t shove your tongue down my throat, I like that.”

Athos kisses him again. The kitchen smells of coffee, of burnt toast and burned egg, of a Berlin Saturday, of smoke and alcohol, of last night’s rain evaporating under the heat of the morning sun. 

“You burned our breakfast,” Athos says, extricating himself from Aramis’ arms. 

“Yes. Sorry about that. There’s still toast left. Or we can go out for breakfast.”

Athos hesitates for just a fraction of a moment. “No. Let’s stay here.”

Aramis’ eyes light up in a smile. “Good.”

They drink their coffee in silence at the tiny IKEA kitchen table, their knees bumping into each other whenever one of them moves.

“What are your plans for today?” Athos asks eventually, entirely without inflection.

Aramis runs his hand through his hair, contriving to mess it up even more in the process, looks away and then back at Athos. “I’ve got to tackle that storyboard of Porthos’. I’ve procrastinated long enough.”

“Why did they make him draw it anyway? Couldn’t they find someone more suitable to do it?”

“He does have a good eye for details and an impressive visual imagination. He just can’t draw to save his life. And he lost track of chronology somewhere along the way.” Aramis picks up a scrap of paper from a pile to his left and jots down a rough sketch. “This is what it’s supposed to be like,” he points to a neat geometric graph. “And this,” he taps the pen on a messy scrawl squeezed in at the bottom, “is what it looks like at the moment. Artist’s impression.”

“You realise that this is a receipt. For my tax return,” Athos says. “I haven’t filed it away yet.”

“Oh,” Aramis laughs and turns the paper over. “Fifteen euros ninety-nine. I’m so sorry. You can have one of mine. I’m sure I’ve got several in my wallet, you can choose the one you like best.”

Athos lifts a corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “If you need help doing your taxes, you only have to ask.”

Aramis grimaces. “No, really. I don’t want you to help me with that. You’ll get cross and start patronising me, and then we’ll argue and I’ll go off in a huff. I’d rather not fall out with you over something so stupid.”

Athos leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. He can sense Aramis go very still.

“What would you rather argue about?” Athos asks in a blank voice that carefully gives nothing away.

Aramis glances at him briefly, looks away, and looks back, holding Athos’ gaze almost defiantly. “I’m sure we’ll find plenty of opportunities. But it’s all right, you know. I’d rather argue with you than not speak to you at all.”

Athos tears his gaze away from Aramis’ face and forces himself to take in the rest of him, here and now, sober and in broad daylight. Aramis is attractive, he knows that, everyone knows that, but he’s also very unmistakably male, and Athos isn’t quite sure what to do about that. Has he somehow become Aramis’ boyfriend over night? The thought is terrifying, yet also vaguely intriguing.

“What will you tell Porthos?” Aramis and Porthos share everything, he knows that.

Aramis shrugs. “I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it yet, to be honest.”

“I’d rather you didn’t tell him we’re sleeping together,” Athos says coolly.

“We’re not.” Aramis raises his eyebrows and pins Athos down with a serious dark gaze. “We haven’t slept together, and we probably never will.”

“What, then?” Athos asks. “You must have had some sort of plan when you decided to seduce me.”

At that, Aramis grins broadly, like he couldn’t help himself. “ _Seduce_ you? You make it sound like you’re some sort of blushing maiden. Which I happen to know you’re not.” His voice has dropped into the silky smooth tone that he wields to great effect against the unsuspecting, but Athos knows him too well to get distracted.

“I don’t sleep with men,” he says.

“We haven’t slept together,” Aramis reiterates. “Nor do we ever have to. There are no rules to this, you know.”

“There are _some_ rules,” Athos says.

“Yeah, of mutual consent. That’s the only rule that counts. I’m not going to do anything that you’re uncomfortable with. And you won’t do anything that I’m uncomfortable with.”

A sudden vision of Aramis on his knees, blindfolded, choking on Athos’ cock, flashes before his inner eye. “Are you sure?” Athos asks before he can stop himself, and his heart leaps into his throat.

“I trust you,” Aramis says simply.

The heart in his throat swells at those words and he coughs, swallows and pulls himself together. “What do you want?” he says in a voice that’s not quite his own. He’s utterly out of his depth, and Aramis know it, yet it hurts to admit it.

Aramis looks up from where he’s been toying with breadcrumbs on the table. “I didn’t have a plan,” he says in a low voice. “I just wanted to kiss you, and when I did, I liked it. I like touching you. This is what it’s about, for me. I’m not after a fuck, honestly, I’m not. I like the… sensory experience. The intimacy.”

Athos sits very still for a moment, permitting himself to sink into the calm of Aramis’ words. He reaches out and touches the back of Aramis’ hand. Aramis turns his hand so that Athos’ fingers slip beneath his thumb and come to rest against his palm.

“I’m not good with intimacy,” Athos says.

“I know.” Aramis closes his fingers around Athos’. “I’ll show you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title taken from _Le Grand Bleu_ , Luc Besson's 1988 film about freedivers.
> 
> Series title taken from _Nachtgestalten_ (Nightshapes), a 1999 anthology film set in Berlin.


End file.
